


Weight of a Crown

by biscuitsy



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Genn is a good boy, The Universe Forces Anduin To Take A Nap, Velen is a nice space goat man, also my arcane mage boy makes a brief appearance wooo who cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 17:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17687906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitsy/pseuds/biscuitsy
Summary: Anduin struggles to shoulder his burdens.





	Weight of a Crown

In the weeks and months following the start of the war, Anduin had scarcely seen the inside of his bedchambers. On the nights where his duties would permit him sleep, he would have to reacquaint himself with the trappings of his own room- a portrait of his mother on the wall, the well-used but intricately carved wooden desk that housed Queen Tiffin’s rings and his father’s compass, and the four poster bed that, more than once, he had found to have a fine layer of dust on the sheets. 

Anduin could not begrudge his duties for keeping him from sleep, pressing as they were. They kept him from the upper floors of Stormwind Keep, kept him from wandering the halls and rooms that his father had so animatedly inhabited only months ago, and Anduin found himself strangely thankful for it. Even having buried the empty coffin in the tomb at Lion’s Rest, the young king still expected to see his father at his desk, or striding down the spiral stairs towards the garden for a spar. Anduin’s own room did not spare him heartache either- most days, he expected Wyll to be inside, dusting the furniture and fluffing the pillows.

Dealing with the grief in almost every corner of his own home wore Anduin thin. And so, to grant himself some reprieve from the pain of loss, he worked and studied and liaised more than the war asked him to. The kindly maid who served the king and his guests at the table had taken to offering Anduin iced water in recent days, to ease the new dark circles gathering under his eyes. She had not said as much, but her worried, motherly smile as Anduin entered the room spoke volumes of how he must have looked to his subjects.

A warm night in Spring found Anduin unable to sleep yet again. The next fleet of ships returning from Kul Tiras were due to arrive with the first light, and he intended to be there to greet them. A druid had been sent ahead to request the aid of a priest upon their docking.

There were a lot of bodies to bless.

And Anduin, having sent them to their deaths, volunteered his day to do just that. He owed those who had fallen in his service that much, at the very least.

With the rise of the sun over the bay, Anduin stood over the ramparts separating Stormwind City proper from the harbour. In the harsh light of day, the sight of swaths of bodies on the dock rooted Anduin in place, head bowed in shame. Some were wrapped in simple white cloth, some draped in the colours of the Alliance, all of them having met their end in foreign lands away from their loved ones. Fighting a war that Anduin, for all his efforts and sleepless nights of strategising, was soundly losing.

“That’s the last of the soldiers,” said Genn behind him, his voice heavy. “They’ll be calling up farmers, next.”

“When this war began,” Anduin started, throat closing painfully around the words. “I thought we were fighting for peace.”

And they had been. Anduin had given orders- this war was to end a tyrannical leader. To stop her from killing the populace of Stormwind and raising her next generation of Forsaken. To set the Horde right, to oust the Warchief from her throne, and to lay the foundations of peace.

“But we’re just… fighting.”

Anduin could not recall if the Alliance’s army had ever been so wayward and worn under his father. Genn shifted and spoke up, gruff as ever to hide the softer emotions Anduin knew to be hidden deep.

“You’re doing all you can to stop her, your majesty.”

For all he was doing, Anduin had made what felt like far too little headway. His generals and commanders, leaders that Anduin trusted to aid him in his pursuit of peace, thirsted for Horde blood and only stoked the fires further. The rhetoric spoken in too many of their meetings sounded eerily reminiscent of the Horde that Garrosh Hellscream had desired, and more than once the king had left a strategy meet feeling nauseated. The Horde would fracture and twist under Sylvanas’ cruel vision for it, but his aides seemed blind to the very real possibility of the same happening within the Alliance.

Anduin resolved to never let it happen. Even if he had to dirty his own hands to do it, the Alliance would remain a bastion of goodwill and honour. He needed the Horde to take back the honour he had seen in so many of its people, to stoke the uprising that would rip the figurative rug out from under Sylvanas’ throne. And he needed someone within the Horde to help him do it.

And so, in the hours that followed, Anduin released Varok Saurfang from his cell beneath Stormwind.

It was the right thing to do, of this he was certain. Mostly. Mathias Shaw, discreet and loyal as he was, only raised a brow at Anduin’s request to withdraw soldiers from Westfall to aid in the orc’s escape. The men and women of the guard would enjoy a nice night out in the taverns of Westfall while Anduin’s last ditch effort to save Azeroth slinked away into the night, quiet as a ten-foot-tall mouse built like a mountain.

Gods, Anduin hoped this worked.

His thoughts constantly drifting back to the exchange in the cell, Anduin was distracted from his duties for the rest of the afternoon. He finished blessing the remaining bodies, healing the wounds and illnesses of the still living soldiers returning from the front, and in the evening he retired to the map room to plan their next assault. As a boy, he had quite liked toying with the miniature soldiers representing the leagues of soldiers, staging mock battles in much the same way one would play chess. Now, as a king with the lives of thousands in the palm of his hands, the wooden figurines only made Anduin feel grim with burden. 

“Your Highness,” one of the mages called from the corner, stacking away the last of the scrolls and taking others with him to the library. He was a newer hire to the castle, a foil to the elder mages who still treated Anduin with far too much reverence than he liked, and the soft tone the mage had spoken in barely rang in the large stone room. “It has gone past midnight. Shall I send a maid ahead to stoke your fireplace?”

Anduin forced a small smile to his face, too tired to even attempt to make it reach his eyes. The castle staff were growing bold in their insistence that he should sleep.

“Thank you, Mr. Spellwright, but I am not quite finished here. If you could keep the torches lit in the hallways, that would be enough.” Anduin leant over to a bottle of Dalaran Red one of the kitchen staff had left for him earlier, and poured himself a glass.

The mage had enough sense not to argue with an exhausted king. He simply bowed, and swapped the arcane energy at his fingertips for small fireballs that he sent to the embered torches. “As you say, Your Highness. Please have a good night.”

Anduin waved a half-hearted response as he turned back to the map, studying the illustration of Westfall and wondering where the old orc had gone to. Perhaps further south, towards the swamp- the immense foliage would make for excellent cover. Perhaps north, over the perilous plains beneath Blackrock and into the valleys, with its many caves and hills and dales. Thoughts wandering further than he could reach to reign them back in, Anduin reached for a more detailed map of the southern swamps and scoured the shelves for a book on naval command he knew to be around the map room, _somewhere_ …

Later, the Gnomish clock sat above the fireplace chimed loudly, the gears clicking incessantly to turn a little bell that rang four times in the silent room.

_Light, four in the morning already_ , Anduin thought sluggishly, struggling to form the words in his mind. He glanced down at the page and realised he had been reading the same paragraph on historical blockades over and over, taking none of it in. His glass of wine was mostly untouched, too engrossed in his studies to remember to take the occasional sip.

Anduin realised he could fit a few hours of sleep in before the morning meetings. Shoving a ribbon between the pages of the book, the king shut the dusty tome and stood.

Instantly, the world shifted on its axis.

Anduin had enough sense to drop back into the chair, one hand to his forehead. _Not good._ He drew in several long, slow breaths, waiting for the vertigo to pass, and tried again.

Anduin made to stand to his full height then swore as his knees treacherously bent underneath him, the vertigo back with a vengeance. He shot out a hand to the table, missed it spectacularly, and knocked the glass of wine from its precarious perch on the edge. Anduin pitched to the right, shoulder hitting the rug beneath him first, and idly he knew that would hurt later.

_Ah, no. That wasn’t what I wanted to do at all._ His inner monologue was weirdly nonchalant, clear through his otherwise exhausted mind. He felt the slick wet of the Dalaran Red staining his white shirt and blurring through the thread of the rug beneath him. The cleaning staff would not be happy about that one. _This is just embarrassing._

He shut his eyes for just a moment. A minute to regain his senses, and he would get up and slink away to his chambers before anyone noticed. His limbs refused to move, the dizziness spun the room around him, and his head pounded at the temples. It would pass soon, Anduin knew. Just one minute to gather his thoughts.

In what felt like the next moment, he was shouted awake by the guttural cry of his own name. The rug beneath his forehead shook with the force of heavy footsteps that only grew heavier as they approached. A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled, rolling the king onto his back, and Anduin squinted in the harsh red light suddenly glowing through his eyelids.

“ _Anduin!_ ” His name came with a rough shake of the shoulder that lurched the king back to full consciousness. His eyes opened- Genn knelt over him, towering in his worgen form, while two castle guards flanked the elder man on either side of his huge frame. They each held a torch, and Anduin wished he could snuff the flames out as easily as the castle mages could- it hurt his tired eyes to even be near them. “What happened?!”

Anduin shrunk at Genn’s tone, a strange but intimidating mixture of worry and fury. “I, uh… I’m fine. I just…” Anduin rubbed a fingertip at either tear duct, trying to clear the dull ache. “I’m just tired.”

Genn exhaled a growl, anger barely contained. He glanced over the maps and books and the half full bottle of wine, and Anduin saw the moment Genn put the pieces of the puzzle together. “You’ve not been sleeping again. I _knew_ this was going to happen sooner or later.” The guards stepped back, giving the worgen a wide berth. It was then Anduin noticed that Genn was free of his usually kingly outfit, clad only in a white shirt and looser fitting cotton trousers- the king of Gilneas was in his pajamas. “The guards knock on my door at five in the morning to tell me that the _king has been found collapsed_ \-- do you have any idea how frightening that is?!”

Anduin did. He imagined that for the poor guard who found him unconscious on the floor, unresponsive and covered in blood red wine, it must have looked like an assassination. The priest grimaced. “I apologise, Genn. I assure you, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Having not heard his apology, or perhaps simply ignoring it, Genn scooped a massive hand under Anduin’s back and knees before lifting him to his feet. “Far be it from me to order my king around,” he started, low and dangerous and just this side of fatherly, “but if I were you, I would go to bed.” When Anduin didn’t move, Genn lifted a huge finger and pointed towards the staircase leading to the king’s chambers. “ _Now._ ”

Failing to tamper down the offense Anduin felt at being ordered to his room- as if he were a child, in front of his _guards_ no less- Anduin uselessly straightened his rumpled coat and inclined his head. “Thank you for your council, King Greymane, but you are not here to be a replacement for my father.” The king’s bones ached around the edges. The Divine Bell did not stand Anduin’s callousness for long.

“No,” Genn agreed, voice neutral in the way that Anduin knew to be a precursor to a scolding. “I am here so that I can properly guide you in the art of kinghood. I am here so you can have all my years of military experience and expertise at the drop of a hat. I am here as a confidant and a _friend_. And I _stay_ here-” His voice rose, rattling the miniature soldiers on the table. “-to ease your burden of ruling a kingdom so you do not work yourself into an early grave!”

The last word was punctuated with a fist to the war table, the wooden soldiers clattering and falling into disarray over the map of Azeroth. Anduin glanced at them, grim in their reminder of just how badly this war was going, and all the fight in him vanished. He knew why Genn worried so- the worgen king did not want to watch another young man he saw as a son die an early death- but tired as he was, he suddenly could not muster up the energy to care. He felt hollow save for the burn of shame in his chest.

“...I will retire to my chambers for the night,” Anduin heard himself say, intonation gone as if he were on autopilot. “Please rouse me in the event of an emergency.”

The king felt three pairs of eyes on his back as he left the room, one hand skimming over the stone walls in an unconscious want of support. He took the stairs slowly, one at a time with dragging feet, until the spiral walls gave way to the long corridor housing his chambers. Anduin’s room was the first one on the right and he dragged himself into it on muscle memory alone. The weighted door shut behind him as he stood stock still on the plush lion-emblazoned rug, and tried desperately to find a bearing.

_Change for bed. Sleep. Attend to Genn when both of our moods are better._ Anduin sighed and stripped himself of his robes, hanging them carelessly over the back of the chair. He peeled off the shirt, winced at the wine stain and threw it to one side. Wyll would have made a small noise in disagreement, would have taken the clothes and folded them with such expertise that no crease could form on them. Would have assured him he could get the wine out of that shirt then quickly make a hot tea with honey to aid the king’s sleep, and bid Anduin a pleasant night as he left with the soft, fatherly smile that Anduin always remembered him with, the smile that had meant so much to him in his father’s many absences.

But Wyll was dead. As was Varian. As were Anduin’s hopes of ending this war with no serious amount of bloodshed. 

Halfway through changing, Anduin sat on the bed, rooted there by his own despair. He dropped his forehead to a hand, palm over his eyes, and swallowed back the constriction in his throat. _Deep breaths. Count to ten. One, two, three…_

A knock on the door sent him several inches into the air. His attempt at calming himself ruined, Anduin stalked over to the dresser.

“We can talk in the morning, Genn,” he called, pulling on a nightshirt before Genn inevitably let himself in anyway.

“It’s probably best you do,” said a deeper voice, more wise and aged than Genn’s ever could be, and Anduin spun to face Velen as the draenei stood in his doorway.

“Prophet--” Anduin sputtered, tugging down at his nightshirt. Why Velen had to choose then to enter, of all moments, when Anduin was in a state of dress not meant for such highly esteemed guests--

 

“Calm, my friend. I am only here to make sure you’re alright.” Velen propped his staff by the door, as if it were nothing more than a simple cane, and serenely held his hands together. “May I come in?”

Deflated, exhausted and frankly embarrassed, Anduin took a seat on the edge of his bed and motioned for Velen to join him. “...I apologise if the commotion woke you.”

“Not at all. I was already awake- I rise just before the sun does, most days… I quite like to watch it climb above the edge of the sea, watch the fishing boats sail out into it. It’s an excellent reminder of just how lucky we all are to be here, I think.” Velen’s voice, calm and even and grounding, steadied Anduin as the young king wrung his hands together, face turned down in an unhappy grimace.

“We shall see how lucky Stormwind is after this war.” The bed dipped with Velen’s weight as he sat, comically large on the human-sized bed. Anduin heaved a sigh and gently pull his hair from its ponytail, letting the flaxen strands curtain his face from Velen’s view.

“The guards tell me you fainted,” the draenei said, changing the dire subject for one infinitely more embarrassing. “Are you alright?”

Anduin groaned. “I didn’t _faint_ ,” he huffed. “I got slightly dizzy for a moment and thought to lay on the floor until it passed. I shut my eyes for a moment, and...” Anduin gestured vaguely, feeling his face flush.

 

“Ah,” the prophet replied, his tone giving nothing away. “Do you feel better for the brief nap?”

Anduin held a hand to the shoulder he fell on, rubbing idly. “...No. I do not sleep much these days.”

The silence hung between them, stretched on for more moments than Anduin ever would have liked. Velen gently placed a hand over Anduin’s shoulder and immediately the king felt the Light easing the bruise that had begun to form. He hadn’t realised just how cold with torpor he was until the golden warmth flooded his veins.

“The burden of leadership is a heavy one,” Velen murmured. “You can only act on what you feel is best. Your decision may fall flat. At worst, it might fail or backfire, or even cost lives. It’s an enormous responsibility to have.”

Despite everything, Anduin managed a wry grin. “I feel like that was the part where you were supposed to make me feel better,” he said, drawing his feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed. Velen huffed a soft laugh.

“Neither Genn nor I will mince words with you, Anduin. We’ve both felt the weight of that responsibility. We’ve both made mistakes, and paid for them. Sometimes, that payment was in blood.” Velen’s look slowly turned distant, eyeing the unfathomably ancient staff still propped against the stone wall. “Even having the gift of foresight, I cannot see what path it took to get there. I cannot pick and choose what to see, either.”

The prophet shook his head, and turned to his former charge. “Forgive me, Anduin. I fear I’ve talked about myself a little too much.”

The king shook his head, hair waving gently. “It’s good to be reminded I’m not alone in this… Though, speaking of Genn… I imagine he’s still quite angry?”

“Would you believe he isn’t?” Velen’s smile was gentle, easy. “He only worries for you, Anduin. You’re like a son to him, you know this.”

“I do,” Anduin agreed, a little sadly. It was no secret that Genn often treated Anduin like the son he lost. “I have to wonder what kind of king Liam would have made had he survived.” The self-deprecation Anduin tried to tamper down bled into his words. He inwardly winced.

“Anduin,” Velen said, more gentle than anything else he had spoken. “If he had turned out to be even _half_ the king you are, he would have been a great king indeed.” 

Anduin did not meet Velen’s eyes. The draenei turned where he sat, reaching out a finger to tuck the hair shielding Anduin from his gaze behind the young man’s ear.

“And you must trust me, when I say that you are going to make an excellent High King, Anduin.”

The prophet’s tone spoke volumes of everything he wanted to say, and simply could not. Anduin forced a quirk of his lips.

“Thank you, Velen. Your council is… invaluable to me.” Anduin forced his eyes open, speaking as clearly as his exhaustion would let him. “Though I would make a better king if I could sleep through the night, for a change.”

“You need only ask, Anduin.” Velen smiled, sitting up straighter. The king inclined his head.

“I’d like the Light’s blessing in, ah, getting a good night’s sleep. If you would.” 

The prophet chuckled, waiting until Anduin leaned back up to place his thumb on the king’s forehead, and rest his other hand on Anduin’s chest, right above his heart. The warmth of the Light easily bled through the nightclothes, chasing away the remaining torpor. Anduin could not remember the last time he had felt so at ease, so at peace, so reassured-

He did not realise he had slumped backwards until Velen had caught him around the shoulder and behind his head, easing him down into the pillows. Later on, he would likely be embarrassed over being tucked into bed by an ageless prophet, but in the moment he could only think of how Wyll and his father had done the same for him, years ago, when things were easier and he had not yet learned how cruel fate could be. 

The ache of grief, usually so strong an ache in his chest, did not feel nearly so harsh now. He thought of his father and Wyll, of them in their prime and how much he had loved both of them, and only smiled as he fell asleep.

 

Anduin slept until just past noon, dozed for even longer until the ache in his eyes wore off, and almost threw himself out of bed when the Gnomish clock on his room chimed two. He wore something practical today- comfortable and loose fitting, yet undeniably royal in its trappings- and hurried down the spiral staircase and into the kitchen. 

To his great surprise, Genn was already there assembling a plate of croissants, apples and some sort of fruit tart. 

“Sleep well?” the worgen asked, voice clear and, to Anduin’s shock, certainly not angry.

“...Yes, actually. I feel better than I have in a while.” Anduin kept his voice neutral, still trying to scope Genn’s mood. “...That’s a smaller plate than you usually make, are you feeling alright?”

Genn chuckled. “As if I would be eating pastries at this time of day. I don’t have a rampant sweet tooth, like _some_ people.” Genn stared pointedly at Anduin, lips upturned in a lopsided grin. The king’s sweet tooth was an open secret around the castle. “No, my boy, I made this for you. I thought you’d get right back to the map room without having breakfast, you see.”

The last bit of weight fell from Anduin’s shoulders. He smiled warmly, walking over to take the plate from Genn. “Thank you, Genn. That’s thoughtful,” he murmured, staring into the fruit tart as if it held the script for everything he wanted to say.

Genn, waiting on his king’s word, took an apple from the worktop and bit into it noisily.

“...Your council is more important to me than you know, Genn.” Anduin said finally, forcing himself to look the Gilnean king in the eye. “And I am sorry if I have ever said otherwise. I was exhausted, not thinking clearly, and being utterly foolish.”

Genn finished his bite of apple before replying. “Yes, well, I know a thing or two about being foolish. And I know I am belligerent, sometimes--”

“Out of concern!”

“--but never doubt that I only want your wellbeing, my boy.” Genn laid a hand on either of Anduin’s shoulders, a comforting grip that Varian had used many a time on then-Prince Anduin, and the gesture was so familiar that Anduin couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

“And I only want yours, and my people’s. I trust you will guide me as best you can.”

“I shall. And maybe, once in a blue moon, I will even give you advice you will take.” Genn led Anduin out of the room and towards the study. The king laughed and nudged the worgen with an elbow.

“Let’s not hope for miracles, Genn.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope Anduin gets so many hugs in the next expac I s2g


End file.
